


Arms and Armor

by triesquid



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, the arming of the champion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 21:17:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triesquid/pseuds/triesquid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles was not only armed--he was armored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arms and Armor

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working under the assumption that Deaton did not necessarily share the handy-dandy information that dog whistles actually work on werewolves. He might have told Scott--and Scott might have told Stiles--but I'm not placing bets on that. Especially with how well Deaton shares information.

Stiles layered another shirt and a flannel before putting on his ever-present hoodie.

Okay, honestly, he knew that he looked rag-bag disheveled—and was kinda happy that’s all he looked like considering how little he was sleeping and all—but there was madness to his method.

Scratch that.  Reverse it.

Armor.

He was living in a world of werewolves and lizard people and psychotic Hunters who really didn’t care who or what became collateral damage in their ridiculous War Against Monsters—and who the hell did they get their raison d’être from?  Fucking Bush, Jr.?  Assuming all monsters were evil was like assuming all people were exactly the same.  That’s why there were laws and checks and balances—a need for evidence and proof—but, nooooooooo, we’re monster hunters.  We don’t have to play by the rules of those pesky, ignorant humans—

This human wasn’t ignorant anymore.

But, yeah.  Armor.

Okay, not-great armor, but armor nevertheless.

Well, less craptastic considering that [one of his shirts was a Kevlar weave as were his pants](http://www.dragginjeans.com/).  Purchased on the internet because—for fuck’s sake—someone had to be tactically-minded in this group.

Army.

Pack.

Thing.

They probably wouldn’t really hold up against claws of the sort he was becoming frighteningly too familiar with—and, oh my god, _so not the teeth_ —but it was the best he could do really and not be terribly, horribly obvious.

Now, armored, he needed his armory.

In his pockets—the many, many pockets that weighed down his body, but ensured that he was as ready as he could be for any unexpected situations—Stiles tucked away bags of powdered wolfsbane and a vial of wolfsbane oil, a Zippo, a multi-tool, tweezers, a dog whistle—because, really, why wouldn’t that work?—[a taser that he had built from scratch](https://www.google.com/webhp?sourceid=chrome-instant&rlz=1C1DVCJ_enUS381&ion=1&ie=UTF-8#hl=en&tbo=d&rlz=1C1DVCJ_enUS381&q=how+to+build+a+taser+from+scratch&revid=1583065474&sa=X&ei=qPTTUKqfN5SBrQGIx4GwDQ&sqi=2&ved=0CIYBENUCKAE&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.r_cp.r_qf.&fp=93a0003da4073894&bpcl=40096503&biw=1200&bih=565&ion=1) and upped the voltage on and shoved in an Altoids tin, a small jar of mountain ash, a flashlight, homemade pepper spray with a wolfsbane twist, and a few other bits and bobs from Dr. Deaton’s stash.

Check the things he could make; check the arsenal he could put together.

His google-fu was strong.

Fuck that, the internet was totally his bitch.

His was an arsenal of intelligence and cleverness.

Stiles was as ready as he could be.

He grabbed his bag and headed out the door to school.


End file.
